


Musain

by CorvidFeathers



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Afterlife, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Canonical Character Death, Revolution of 1848
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:40:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvidFeathers/pseuds/CorvidFeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just another day at the Musain.  Nine revolutionaries and a little boy are joined by the eleventh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Musain

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing Les Miserables fic, and I’m still a little unsure on the characterizations. Any pointers or corrections would be really appreciated and I love feedback!

It was funny, Courfeyrac mused, how things could change so drastically and yet remain the same.

The backroom of the Musain was filled with light and laughter, familiar voices raised in debate and exclamation. 

Under the map of France under the old republic Enjolras and Combeferre stood, engaged in friendly sparring of wits. Combeferre was using the map to illustrate some point, stabbing at Paris with his a finger and making a final, no doubt cutting remark. Enjolras launched into his a defense of his point, his eyes glowing with fervor. There was a familiar rhythm to each gesture, each rebuttal and counterstrike, and the two were as evenly matched as anyone could be.

Feuilly was sitting with Gavroche at one of the scarred tables. There was a book clutched in Gavroche’s hands, and he was squinted at the pages, his mouth moving to form the syllables carefully. “- is the… preservation… of the natural and im-impre-“

“Imprescriptable,” Feuilly said, smiling and giving Gavroche an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “You’ll get it yet.”

“I don’t see why this fellow had to write all of this down, when it’s sommat all true citizens should know,” muttered Gavroche, but he smoothed the pages of the book out anyway, and cast Feuilly a reverent look. Feuilly had quite charmed the boy with his fiery rants on Poland and the bettering of humanity as a whole, and Gavroche absorbed any information thrown his way with the voracity of someone who relied on his wits to survive.

At a table near the corner Bahorel and Grantaire were playing dominoes and exchanging good-natured insults. They were paying more attention to their verbal match then the game, which gave Jehan ample opportunity to rearrange the game to his liking every few minutes, as a representation of the fickle tastes of Fate and the gods, so he claimed.   
Across the table from Courfeyrac Joly was fretting over Musichetta, and Bossuet was trying to talk him out of his mounting anxieties. 

“I do not like the look of that artist fellow,” he said, gloomily examining his tongue in his ever-resent handmirror. “He has no sense. He’ll leech off her, while batting those innocent blue eyes and making clumsy classical allusions.” He scowled. 

The expression was ill-suited to his cheerful face, a sentiment which Bossuet clearly shared, as he countered Joly’s words with “Our ‘Chetta is a sensible woman, far more shrewd than you or I. She’s just having her amusement, and I say every person deserves their amusements.” Bossuet put his arm around Joly. 

“Cheer up Jolllly, once she gets a glimpse of you all thoughts of falso bohemians will flee,” Courfeyrac said, grinning. “Falsity pales before true happiness and idealism. And you look far better in leather trousers than that fellow.”

Joly brightened, a laugh escaping him. “I know better than to doubt your word on matters of the heart.”

Bahorel had evidently been listening to this conversation, because he turned his attention from the rant Grantaire was spinning to shout across the room “Don’t forget who advised you on the leather trousers!”

“It would be hard to forget,” Bossuet remarked dryly. “Considering you managed to drag Grantaire along as well…”

This led to another round of friendly insults, this time exchanged between Bossuet and Grantaire, who had wound down his rant comparing Bahorel to the malformed Roman god Vulcan just in time to hear Bossuet’s remark. 

Courfeyrac would have gladly joined the ensuing chaos of wits, but his sharp ears caught a set of footsteps coming down the hall. He tensed for a moment, but then recognition dawned on him. They were same set of footsteps that had so often departed and arrived at his apartment at ungodly hours of the night, as quiet and timid as their owner.   
He stood as the door was pushed open, revealing a middle-aged man. The man had dark hair, gray just beginning to creep into it in strands. A faded scar started at his temple and disappeared into his hair. Time had sharpened the angles of his face and relieved him of the uneasy posture of a boy trying his best to pass unnoticed for fear of the world, but Courfeyrac could still see in him that awkward law student he had taken under his wing.

“Marius!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms around the man.

Marius looked taken aback, almost jerking out of Courfeyrac’s grasp. “C-Courfeyrac?” he stuttered, at a loss as to what to say.

Perhaps age had not robbed him of all his awkwardness. Courfeyrac drew back, grinning. “You’re late,” he said. “The others didn’t think you would come.”

“I… well… er…” Marius cast a glance around the room, and looked as if he were trying his best not to seem intimidated. None of the others had noticed his presence, save for Enjolras and Combeferre, who were observing this exchange from their position under the map. “I, well…” Marius cleared his throat and held out a paper he had been holding.  
Courfeyrac took it, scanning the headlines. His grin grew wider. “Yes, we’ve heard,” he said, clapping Marius on the shoulder. “Down with the Pear, and with kings! For good this time.” He shook his head. “We’ll make a Republican of you yet, Marius.” 

Marius allowed himself to be pulled to the table and sat down next to Bossuet and Courfeyrac. The others greeting him merrily, and casually enough it seemed that they had only parted yesterday, instead of sixteen years before. 

“A toast to the Second Republic!” Bahorel cried, and Courfeyrac thrust a glass into Marius’s hands. 

“Welcome, citizen,” Enjolras greeted Marius. “Hopefully we won’t have to quarrel over this new Buenaparte.” He favored Marius with a smile, and his eyes glittered with humor. Marius still looked overwhelmed by all of this, but he laughed and nodded.

It was only once everyone had once again become engaged in arguments and conversation that Marius drew Courfeyrac aside. 

“Courfeyrac…” he said, clasping his hands behind him. “I’m worried about my.. my… I’m worried about Cosette.” 

Courfeyrac was silent for a moment, then put his hand on Marius’s shoulder again. “She’ll be fine. She’ll grieve, but she’ll survive, and be happy once more.” When Marius gave him a confused look, Courfeyrac merely shrugged. “I like to keep up with old friends. We’re not completely cut off from the world. She’s a strong woman. She’ll survive this, and she’ll go on living. She had your children to help her.”

If anything, this only distressed Marius further. “I… I left them behind,” he said, as if it were all finally catching up with him. Courfeyrac could remember that feeling all too well. The sudden realization that his time was over, that he could never make the change he wished to see, merely observe humanity blundering towards it from afar. 

Courfeyrac put an arm around Marius. “They will thrive,” he said, looking at his old friend. Marius had always been a puzzle to him, a puzzle made more complex by his appearance at the barricades in 1832. Now he understood him a little better, enough to understand how much it meant for Marius to have gone to barricades, left his comfortable position and loving family to risk his life.

Marius met his gaze. His eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I… Never got… never took the chance to thank you properly… or to understand you then but…”

“You did well,” Courfeyrac said quietly, drawing him back to the table, where a lively argument over the merits of the arts in the furthering of revolutionary ideas was taking place. At first Marius remained withdrawn, but slowly he began to open to the discussion. Jehan managed to lure him into a lively discussion of translations of Romantic poets, and before he could even realize what was going on he was talking and laughing with the rest of them.

The backroom of the Musain was filled with light and laughter, with little bursts of brilliance and atrocious puns, and though so much had changed it was comforting to think that this would remain.

**Author's Note:**

> The revolution referenced here was the one that took place in 1848 and overthrew Louis-Phillipe, the Citizen King.


End file.
